


You will be buried in Pelican Town

by Rattle



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Insecurities, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, One Shot, Pining, Second Person, vanilla sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28995747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattle/pseuds/Rattle
Summary: Please don’t make assumptions about him. He is not what you think, and still waters run deep.
Relationships: Sebastian (Stardew Valley)/Reader, Sebastian/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 105





	You will be buried in Pelican Town

Waking up, drenched in sweat, you try to linger in the dream. You imagine things. Things that make your throat squirm and your legs, snap together to feel pressure, _any_ pressure. You imagine his soft strands strewn across your thighs, his long and graceful fingers on you, in you, his tongue, lapping you as if he was a thirsty animal and the space between your thighs, his watering-place. _Sebastian… Sebastian!_ You imagine that, after watching, feeling you unravel, he smiles, almost triumphantly, his lips wet and glistening, his eyes dark with lust for you. You imagine him well endowed and shameless in the ways he uses what Yoba gave him. You imagine him rough, possessive and voracious. All of it, like in those stories you’ve read back in the city, curled up in your tiny bed in your tiny apartment in your tiny corner of an enormous, cruel world. They were your escape. Why do you still cling to them? They’re lies. 

“I want you. I want you so much, Sebastian,” you say to the empty room. 

You want his body, you want his mind, you want to bear his children. 

And this is wrong. And he is none of _that_. He feels so very naive and pure in his unending grief, doubt and voluntary reclusion, that you deem yourself dirty and disgusting just for daring to think these things, much less dreaming about them, dreaming them. It cannot be the truth; His mind is that of a moody teenager, nothing else, and he has this _uninterested virgin_ energy about him, you tell yourself, again and again. If there even is a sex drive in that gaunt body of his, it’s fragmented, unsure, braided with reluctance and self-deprecation. He doesn’t want this, or you. He barely has the energy to crawl out of bed each morning, at least according to those who know him best. He doesn’t even want to stay here, in this town. Or, maybe, not even in this world, because every time you try and start a conversation with him, he only speaks, timidly, barely looking into your eyes, of things that grant him _his_ escape and reprieve. He daydreams of other worlds, where war is not a real thing claiming lives and livelihoods, and destroying families, but an honorable game, where no death exists, where everyone is always free to follow their dreams, be it to tame and ride dragons, or save pretty maidens from dragons, or become magical rockstars. Maybe atop dragons. 

This world — the real one, where fathers leave and are replaced by strange, aloof men, where scorned mothers drag you into boring faraway shitholes, and then care more for a prized collection of axes than you, and existence is stale, and everything is always the same, and you are born and die a nobody, and some new-in-town, painfully enthusiastic girl keeps on bothering you for some reason — is execrable, insufferable, a nuisance. You tell yourself this, too, over and over again. You are a nuisance in his eyes, undoubtedly. With all these _painfully enthusiastic_ smiles you cannot contain when you see him, and dumb, thoughtful gifts you cannot stop giving him. 

He is neglected and miserable, almost by choice, he drinks his anguish in, and you can see it in his eyes, in the permanent shadows under them, when you pass by his form, a lonely, crooked black-and-white-and-violet apparition by the river, with cigarette smoke rising from it. He gives you one little smile each time, just because he’s a polite boy. And you cling to it every time, and swallow it, and keep it inside. 

What could you possibly offer him that he would want? Your lust and infatuation would confuse him. Your love for the outdoors and garden work, and real, physical achievements one may touch and pluck and taste, would perplex him, if it doesn’t already. Your hate for the city would turn him away completely. You never mention the latter for fear of losing him — without having any of him in the first place. Things you find joy and happiness in, like dew on leaves, and the look in your beloved pet’s eyes as you scratch them behind the ear, and the fragrant, crispy feel of morning air, and the tart juice of a plum coating your mouth as you bite into it… All of these mean nothing to him, and will always mean nothing. 

If there is a potential paramour on his mind, which you doubt, but if there is. They must be thin, lithe, graceful and wistful, full of courage, big dreams and brave disdain for the world. Someone who is never content with taking it just one day at a time. They must be someone who’s into the occult and mystical, like Abigail. Or, maybe into music and video games, like Sam... You don’t know for sure. Either way, it’s not you. It will never be you. 

Because you like it here. You like to plunge your hands into the ground. You like to fall asleep exhausted. You like the frogs around your pond. You like the pond itself. You like the sun’s warm tickle on the back of your neck. Every morning, you thank it for rising over your new life. You want to die and be buried in Pelican Town, and let your body join the stardew. And you would have been completely happy now if not for this one thing. 

And he’d probably say his fingers are bony, not “long and graceful”. 

Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s hard. On days like this one, with the moon full, it’s unbearable. Voices around you as you nurse your drink, head propped on your elbow. They’re cheerful, and your shoulder gets a pat from time to time, and your ear, a friendly greeting. 

They love each other. They love you, as well, not only because they loved your dear old grandpa, but also because you’re the New Girl, you’re sweet, courteous and grateful for their attention; you’re the much needed spice in their bland stew, and a novelty still. Your ambition inspires them, and your shunning of big city life probably makes them feel validated in their lifestyles — rightfully. 

Everything is good. Life is good. You have money now — a commodity previously barely known to you, as you’ve lived paycheck to paycheck for years. And only yourself and your dedication to thank for it. Your skin has stopped peeling and your tan is lovely. Your arms are so strong now, who would have thought it possible without those pesky gym memberships you could never afford anyway. 

Everything is good. You should be perfectly happy. But there is a hollow place inside. It aches like a phantom limb. And everything about it, you tell yourself, is _phantom_ and imaginary. The object of your dreams is not who you think he is. You’ve seen proof that he is not. You’ve heard and felt proof that he is not. Why do you keep on believing the opposite? 

The door creaks amidst the noise. Your heart performs a somersault, just like every other time you see those hunched shoulders, the edge of a white t-shirt protruding from under the black hoodie. The pained look in his eyes. He is all alone, his friends are not with him tonight. 

He sees you. And he smiles, the way he always does when your eyes meet, with the corner of his mouth, not showing his teeth. Naturally, he’s just being polite again, because, despite all her alleged failings, Robin raised a polite boy. He must hate this. He must hate… Everything. 

It’s your legs that carry your body to the side room, disregarding the rest of you, disregarding your brain that screams, thrashes and commands you to turn back. Why are you doing this? He is not who you think he is. He doesn’t want you. He will never want you. 

Above the old and mangy pool table your eyes meet again. You call his name, a prayer on your lips he does not know he is receiving. What is there to say? Are you going to ask him again about books he has read lately? It’s not that you’re disinterested in them, or in asking, it’s that he is so disinterested in talking. 

“You look… Nice,” he says. Very polite. Very do-not-want-you-here polite, right? 

“So do you.”

You trade another look, and you think you see something else in his eyes, something… 

“What is this really about?” he asks. Nobody else is in the room but the two of you, and he is oddly confident and brisk, or is it just a trick of your perverted imagination? 

What _is_ this about, anyway? What were you hoping to achieve this time? Won’t it end like every other time you’ve met, and talked, and stood in the rain, your hand reaching for his but never touching? Maybe it is time to cut the rope. Maybe it will finally push him out of the town. He wants to leave so badly, you sense it, hear it, that longing for things great and far away. You feel horrible. You feel selfish. But these words are inevitable, and sooner or later you will die if you don’t say them out loud. But then again, you will die if you do. 

“I want you,” you tell him. “I want you so much, Sebastian, so desperately, it feels suffocating. I think about you at night. Almost every night. I...” you trail away. It’s over now, and it’s a bullet to the temple. 

“Huh.”

He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and, with your heart bleeding, you watch his prominent adam’s apple rise slightly up and down the column of his pale throat. Here it comes. He will put the glass back on the table, slowly, awkwardly. Most likely he will just turn and leave. If he’s feeling generous and _polite_ enough, he’s going to tell you that you’re drunk, and this is inappropriate, and maybe you should get some sleep and rethink your behaviour. 

The glass clangs against the table firmly. He slowly walks towards you. Walls shift around you. 

“Really?” he asks, voice changed all of a sudden. The scent of his skin is your favourite thing in the world, and always will be, no matter what happens. 

“Really.” Because what else is there to say? 

“Alright… Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to head home now,” he says. Here it comes. _Crash it, burn it, because I deserve this. I am disgusting, filthy, and my imagination was…_ “You will leave the door unlocked. You will take all your clothes off. You will get into bed and wait for me.” This is what it feels like, probably, to be hit on the head with a blunt object and not faint. Your ears must be playing one last trick on you, or you are losing your mind, which is cruel if it is done by God, and fair if it’s done by you. 

Looking around to make absolutely sure no one is there, because Sebastian likes it so much when no one else is there, he lifts and opens his palm and presses you against the wall with it. Gently but firmly. “Will you do it for me?” he asks, looking right into your eyes. His are so dark. So very, very dark; pupils blown. 

You would do anything for him. So you do it. Bracing yourself for a long and lonely night, full of self deprecation and _stupid, stupid, stupid girl_. But hoping… Hoping. You don’t have to hope for too long. 

The door creaks again. This time, yours. Discarded shoes hit a wall. 

“Come to me,” you plead into the darkness of the hallway, voice breaking. And he does. 

Maybe this isn’t a hallucination. Maybe your dreams and your unconscious mind were right all along. Maybe you should have trusted them. Maybe then you would have had this sooner. 

Or, maybe and most likely, you’re dead. You are joining the stardew now. 

Sliding one knee onto the edge of the bed, he looks at you. You are naked, just the way he asked you to be, and flushed, and aching. 

And his. Maybe he knows this by now. Maybe he can feel it. There’s moonlight filling the room, and it’s otherworldly. _Just like he is._ He reaches back and pulls his hoodie off, along with that oddly, impossibly white t-shirt. And the moon claims him. 

“I want you, too… I’ve wanted… For so long...” He kisses you, and he is famished, and you howl into his mouth. “To taste you, touch you, be with you...” 

You fill your hands, and your mouth, and your mind with him, and so does he, with you. 

“Tell me again,” he orders, as his teeth scrape your neck, his nails drag across your shoulders. “Tell me again how much you want me.” He sucks a bright bruise into your skin, and you have to remember how to breathe. 

“I want to be inhaled, devoured, violated, claimed by you. It’s an unquenchable thirst, Sebastia-a-a-a-n.” This time, his name on your lips turns into a wail as he penetrates you. He’s so deep, he’s stretching you so sweetly, you think you see stars. They’ll fall and grace the land, like they did this one. 

“I’ll quench it.” You bite back a piercing scream as his hips snap into you. “And then I’ll quench it again. And again. And again.” Each word, punctuated by them. 

He’s hungry, he’s been hungry for so long, and he is insatiable. More so even than you. It’s hard to believe. You have to believe it. You have no choice. You feel so good. So good, so… 

“Sebastian… Sebastian!” Don’t stop, don’t ever stop, die with me here. 

He calls your name, and it’s a gruff, greedy whisper as he fucks you deep and hard, down the wave of your orgasm, from this world and into the next. 

You must have died. You did die. But it’s alright. You will be buried in Pelican Town. 

He rises above you, moonlight reflecting off the pale skin on his hairless chest, that now bears bitemarks of your love, just like the whole of your body is adorned with his. 

He rises, and he smiles. Triumphantly. 

**Author's Note:**

> *English is not my native language, so please be merciful  
> *and if you think this is decent, would you do me a favor and check out my original work? Pleaase? :)


End file.
